


Glitterbaby

by Randomosities



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rockstar AU, Romance, Sexuality Crises, ambrollins - Freeform, erotic makeup application, life crises, or something like that, sexuality exploration, that's a new one, weird ass tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-01 17:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8632192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomosities/pseuds/Randomosities
Summary: Dean Ambrose is an up-and-coming singer and guitarist who's seeking a backing guitarist in his band for touring and other performances.Seth Rollins is the man chosen for the job. All Dean knows about him is that he can play pretty damn well, and that he apparently likes to wear makeup and glitter.Dean's immediately interested, but he's also totally, completely, one-hundred-percent straight.But there's no harm in some fun on stage, is there?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Long note incoming. Feel free to skip if you want.
> 
> So this has been rolling around in my head for a while, in various fragments of ideas, so I decided to finally sit down and do something about it. Inspiration for this has come from a variety of sources -- Ambrollins in general, a musician friend who let me view the music industry and his fandom from his eyes for a while (no I'm not telling you who it is, bye), the homophobia I witness where I live on a near-daily basis, and this one guitarist who I will not name unless you ask nicely who is really pretty and likes to wear makeup and looks really good in it. Among other things. But I'm going to use this fic to explore a lot of kinda deep themes, so if you're ONLY here for porn, leave now. Even though there will be lots of it.  
> Lots and lots of it. You'll be missing out.
> 
> I'm also experimenting with writing in first person, so we'll see how it goes.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like the fic, and if not, oh well, this is really just self-indulgent anyway.  
> (P.S. please don't google the title, the results are weird and have nothing to do with why I named this fic what I did)

I never forgot the day I first met Seth Rollins.

I was so fucking sick and tired of everyone and everything: of my manager, who forced me to _audition_ a bunch of basically-useless guys to play backing guitar for me; of my best friend, Sami, who took it upon himself to sit in on the auditions and hit on every guy that caught his eye (more than you’d expect); and especially of a fairly complex riff I had written myself to be used in one of my songs, but after hearing it done decently, mediocrely, and sometimes mauled and ripped to shreds by generic, talentless boys who wanted nothing more than fame and all the girls they could stick their dicks in, I was more than tired of it.

I’d lost count of how many guys I’d seen. They all looked the same – brown hair, or black hair, a few blonde ones, all of them somehow looking _and_ sounding like Justin fucking Bieber, and I vomited in my mouth a little every time I had to listen to them kiss my ass when I asked them questions when all I wanted was a fucking honest answer.

You’d think honesty would be easy to find in this industry.

Not so much.

I had a sheet of paper with a list of questions I was (supposed) to ask, and some that I had added myself when my manager wasn’t looking, and Sami had helped when he was bored by scribbling on that section so my manager wouldn’t see the additional questions.

Of course, my manager would end up reprimanding me when I asked the additional questions, but whatever, I’m Dean Ambrose and I’ll do what I fucking want and fuck everyone who says I can’t.

That’s kind of my life motto. It’s worked pretty damn well so far.

Anyway, all of these boys, who looked like they’d be better-suited to a Disney Channel audition, would answer every single question with the highest amount of ass-kissing known to man.

“Why are you here today?” I would ask (a manager-approved question).

They’d say something along the lines of “I just adore your music, Mr. Ambrose ( _gag_ ), and I would love to become part of your band. I think the experience would really benefit me and shape me into a better person.”

“How long have you been playing?”

‘Ten years’ was the most common answer, but I seriously doubted it, because most of these guys were fumbling their way around their guitar, and there was one guy who couldn’t even put his damn strap on his guitar (he got kicked out before he could even attempt to play, because _fuck no_ ). I’ve been playing for ten years and I can play my guitar with my eyes closed and ears plugged.

But that might be because I actually have talent, unlike 87 percent of the guys I was forced to put up with through those exhausting excuses for auditions.

After what Sami informed me was the 50th audition, I felt like I was going to die. I’d been sitting in a fucking uncomfortable plastic chair for four hours, listening to guys suck up to me in hopes of breaking into an industry where they didn’t fucking belong in the first place and outright abusing guitars in hopes of impressing me. I felt like my own guitar, even where it was tucked away safely in its case in a corner of the room, was at risk of being damaged just from the godawful noises that ninety percent of those boys could rip out of their guitars.

Those poor instruments.

“I need a fucking break,” I announced to the room after the 50th guy left after (unsuccessfully) trying to impress me.

“Your break is in thirty minutes,” my manager informed me. Well, fuck that.

“I’m going to _break_ someone’s face if I don’t get my break right fucking now. I can’t stand any of these guys. You and I both know that Roman would’ve been a better choice, but Roman’s got family to look after and I respect that. And you _know_ how good Mox would’ve been, but you said ‘ _no, he’s too unstable’_ and forced me to do _this,_ and I can’t stand this and I think I’m gonna need therapy if I’m subjected to one more teenage Justin Bieber wannabe breaking his wrist trying to form a G chord.”

My manager rolled his eyes at me, as usual. “This isn’t going to kill you, Dean. But I’ll allow you a break if you listen to one more person beforehand.”

I pressed my face into the table and groaned, seriously contemplating faking sudden severe illness so I could get out of this. But one more person meant only five more minutes. And then I could _finally_ have a break.

“Fine,” I said, lifting my head and glaring at my manager. “Send him in so I can rip him to shreds.”

And that was when Seth walked in.

I don’t know if it was the way half of his shoulder-length hair was blonde and the other half was brown, like he wanted to dye his hair but couldn’t choose a color so he just said _what the hell, I’ll do both,_ or if it was the black eyeliner and eyeshadow around his eyes that somehow made his irises look golden, or if it was the purple and blue glitter on the insides of his wrists, sparkling in the artificial light of the stuffy room, or if it was his nonchalant attitude that caught my attention, but I was fucking _hooked._

I crossed my fingers under the table and prayed to a nonexistent god that he had the skills to back it up; otherwise, my already-dwindling faith in the universe would become nonexistent.

“So, what’s your name?” I asked.

“Seth Rollins,” he said. I could see it in a tour program book, and picturing it, I nodded.

“Why are you here today?” _Don’t let me down. Don’t let me down._

Seth lifted a shoulder in a half-assed shrug. “I like your music,” he said. “Heard you were having auditions. Decided to come check it out.”

Decisively less ass-kissing than the rest. And probably 95% honest. I could work with that.

“How long have you been playing?”

“Twelve years,” Seth answered easily. _He better not be lying._

“Well, show me what you got.”

Seth proceeded to pull a guitar out that made my guitar weep with envy, because his guitar looked like it cost twenty thousand dollars and sounded like it was made out of liquid gold. (I still don’t know how much it actually cost.) He played the riff _almost_ flawlessly. Not perfectly; there were a couple screw-ups, a couple hesitations, but still ten times better than everyone else I’d heard that day. We could work on it.

“Can you play bass?” I asked him, mostly out of curiosity.

“Yeah.”

“Drums?”

“Learning.”

“Willing to be available for any and all tour dates, recording sessions, rehearsals, and all that?”

Seth nodded. I pointed a finger at him, speaking before my manager could speak for me.

“Then you’re fucking hired.”

Beside me, Sami hummed his approval.

Seth smiled, and I knew we were off to a good start.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he was also popular for, as people whispered in rumors chased across dingy nightclubs and seedy-looking parking lots, his sexuality, which he never confirmed nor denied, or said anything about to the fans, or to us, even. But I heard the fans talk, heard them saying he was gay, and that was why he wore so much makeup, that was why he wore the glitter, that was why he ‘kept looking at Dean like that,’ whatever the hell ‘like that’ was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not have a good day, so I decided to ignore my responsibilities and write some more. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> ALSO: This chapter alludes to some implied homophobia and sexuality assumptions. Just FYI.

Despite popular belief, Seth and I didn’t get along at first. It took a very, _very_ long time for us to click in rehearsals, and even longer to click onstage.

He and I were just naturally very different. He had more of an inclination for pop music, while I preferred harder and heavier rock. As Sami will attest to, we spent many hours in rehearsal arguing over which was better instead of actually rehearsing. The only thing we could agree on was Queen. We came to the consensus that Queen was, and still is, fucking great.

For the longest time, I never understood why he wore makeup or all that damn glitter, and many times at rehearsals I’d be bothered by the mess of multicolored glitter across the floor, falling like snowflakes from wherever he’d decided to put it that day – his wrists, his cheekbones, his collarbone. I still remember the day I rummaged through his bag and found one of his tubes of glitter, this one bright red, and dumped it in his hair, just for the hell of it.

He was _pissed_. But man, was it funny. (And he didn’t look half bad covered in glitter anyway.)

What Seth and I lacked in common interests, we made up for in chemistry. Not _that_ kind, for those of you who aren’t musicians and immediately assume that chemistry = romantic chemistry. No, this kind of chemistry is _musical_ chemistry, and it’s very important in this industry. If you don’t have musical chemistry with someone, you can’t write a song with them or even perform with them. It’s just the rules.

Seth had a talent for being able to play things by ear, and my favorite talent of his was his ability to create a riff matching the pitches I’d hum sometimes, when I was at a loss for ideas and trying to buzz my brain back to life.

He was fairly talented, period. I don’t say that often; I’ve said that in regards to maybe five people in my entire twenty-two years of life. And I know talent when I hear it.

It didn’t take us long to work out the issues he had with the riff used as an audition piece, and soon enough he was able to hold his own, with or without me up there playing with him, singing with him. Even Sami sometimes commented that he thought Seth might actually be a better guitarist than me (to which he’d earn a slap to the back of his head), but Seth _was_ pretty damn good.

Like I was ever gonna tell him that, though. His ego didn’t need to be inflated any more than it already was. He’d strut around at rehearsals like he was already on stage, even though his only audience was me and Sami (and Roman, whenever he decided he could come back and play bass for us, which wouldn’t be for a while), fucking flaunting his shit like he was a god’s gift to earth.

He probably thought he was.

But I’d sit and take a break at rehearsals, drinking water, and I’d watch him and Sami working together, and it occurred to me that somehow, they fit; we all fit, like a slightly dysfunctional, musical family.

And when Roman came back, his presence only solidified my thought that picking Seth had been the right decision. Roman treated Seth like a little brother, lightheartedly picking on him and sometimes stealing his makeup and hiding it in my bag to piss both me and Seth off, but when they had to sit down and make music together, they fit perfectly.

I hoped Seth would never prove me wrong.

* * *

When we acquired a decent fanbase, Seth became pretty popular with the fans. He was different from the rest of us, and the fans liked that. Sure, we were nowhere near average stylistically; Sami liked to make his hair spike in as many different directions as were physically possible, Roman looked like the Hulk compared to the rest of us, and I only bothered to brush my hair once a week, but our deviations from the norm were different from Seth’s.

It was the extras that caught everyone’s attention. The way he wore black eyeliner and eyeshadow to every show, regardless of where we were or what songs we were doing. The way he’d always show up with glitter on his skin somewhere, a different color every show, and by the end of a show it would somehow end up all over the floor of the stage, and more than once my manager chewed me out for getting chewed out by a club owner for his stage floor being turned into a mess (and not just because of the glitter).

But he was also popular for, as people whispered in rumors chased across dingy nightclubs and seedy-looking parking lots, his sexuality, which he never confirmed nor denied, or said anything about to the fans, or to us, even. But I heard the fans talk, heard them saying he was gay, and that was why he wore so much makeup, that was why he wore the glitter, that was why he ‘ _kept looking at Dean like that,’_ whatever the hell ‘like that’ was.

I never listened to the majority of our fans, because somehow we ended up with a shit ton of teenage girls in our fanbase, probably because of Seth, but we were making good money and I was getting to write and perform like I loved to do and I couldn’t complain.

But I never asked Seth, either. As our friendship slowly developed, and we opened up to each other on a wide variety of topics, that seemed to be the one topic we could never discuss – what we really were, who we liked. Anything but that, it seemed.

I never knew why that was.

Not until the world told me why.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seth and I bought a bag of Cheetos and threw half the bag at Roman, trying to get each piece to stick in his hair, which he was so meticulous about. Once my manager had threatened to leave me behind for the sixth time and Roman looked like he was going to climb over the seat and strangle me, Seth and I shared the remainder of the bag, letting the moment speak for us.

I don’t know when I started looking at Seth differently. I don’t know when it was, exactly, that we became so close.

Maybe it was the talks we had when we first started touring, when all we could afford was one of those white vans that look like the kind a pedophile would try to lure children into. We managed to get one with bench-style seats (thank god, they’re _so_ much easier for actually fucking sleeping), and Seth and I would take up one seat while Sami would take another and Roman another, and while they slept we’d talk quietly about everything and anything. We talked about our interests, our childhoods, our hopes and dreams and all that cheesy shit.

Sometimes we’d write songs together, even though Seth still leaned towards pop music. I always thought the blend of his love for pop and my love for rock ended up being ten times more interesting than whatever shitty song my manager actually wanted me to record. Those songs were stowed away for a while, though, as our little secrets; we didn’t release them publicly until our fourth album, and by that time, everyone knew.

I started to trust him. I’d never trusted very many people – my childhood personally hadn’t been the greatest, and there was a small circle of people I genuinely trusted, which included Sami and Roman and did not include my manager.

But one night, when my manager had made the mistake of letting us stop at a gas station and buy whatever we wanted, Seth and I bought a bag of Cheetos and threw half the bag at Roman, trying to get each piece to stick in his hair, which he was so meticulous about. Once my manager had threatened to leave me behind for the sixth time and Roman looked like he was going to climb over the seat and strangle me, Seth and I shared the remainder of the bag, letting the moment speak for us.

* * *

There was one day we had before we started touring, when we were in one of the last rehearsals before our first tour was to start, and we were _not_ getting along. For some reason, we were all cranky and irritable, and we were spending more time arguing than getting anything done, and my manager was on the verge of killing us.

When we tried to play a song, nothing sounded right, and we’d all end up blaming each other and the only one who stayed out of it and was being unusually quiet was Seth. He was sitting down by Sami’s drumset, with his guitar on his lap, watching us, and I could feel his eyes on me when I finally snapped and had to take a break outside.

I was sitting on the curb outside the building, facing the door I’d exited through and left a crack open so I wouldn’t get locked out like I had before. I was trying to clear my mind and wondering why the hell we weren’t getting along _today_ out of all days, when the tour was so soon, because if we couldn’t get along before our tour started then we were fucking doomed.

And then the door opened and Seth stepped out, his guitar nowhere to be seen. His makeup was a little smudged and the silver glitter on his wrists was flaking off, but he wasn’t focused on anything but me.

He sat down next to me, and we sat in silence for a few minutes, until he nudged me, poking an elbow into my shoulder.

“What?”

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi.” Even though I was irritated by what was going on inside the building, I tried to remind myself that I wasn’t in the rehearsal room anymore, and Seth had nothing to do with it; Seth had been strangely quiet that day, and he’d done nothing about the arguments that had occurred. He hadn’t joined in, but he hadn’t tried to stop them, either.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not true. You and Sami and Roman have been at each other’s throats all morning. What’s the matter? Are you okay?”

His concern surprised me; he spoke not in a tone of false concern meaning _get-the-fuck-over-it-so-we-can-go-and-actually-rehearse,_ but genuine concern, the kind that said _hey, are you okay, I’m here for you,_ the kind that I wasn’t very familiar with.

“Just stressed,” I admitted. I’d never done a full-blown tour before. There was so much unexpected pressure, but I had to keep pushing when I was at my limit. But I felt like I was about to burst.

Seth nodded. “I get it. I’m stressed too, but I tend to show it in less-confrontational ways.” He smiled, and for some reason, I wanted to smile too. I felt a little better with him beside me, whatever that said about me.

“Well, I tend to be a bitch when I’m stressed. So you’re gonna end up seeing bitchy Dean Ambrose for the next… god, four months? Is that how long our tour is?”

“Four months, yeah. They’re gonna be the worst four months of my life, putting up with your ass,” Seth said, giggling.

Fucking _giggling._ Like a little kid.

I couldn’t say it bothered me.

“If you’re stressed, try not to stress so much,” Seth continued. “I know that sounds dumb, but we’re your friends. I mean, I know Sami and Roman are your friends… we’re friends too, right?”

“Yeah. We’re friends.” I felt some kind of warmth in my chest at the acknowledgement, but I tried to ignore it.

“So… just think of it as one big road trip with your friends. With lots of music. And, uh, fans. I don’t know about you, but it helps me.”

“That might actually work. Thanks,” I said, rolling the idea around in my head.

A big road trip with my friends.

That definitely worked.

“No problem,” Seth responded, and we returned to a peaceful, easy silence. I had zoned out for a few minutes, but I returned to my thoughts when there was a pressure on my shoulder. I glanced over at Seth and realized he was laying his head on my shoulder.

 _What the hell?_ I wanted to ask, but I didn’t say anything, and my traitorous body decided it didn’t feel uncomfortable in the slightest.

My body also decided it wanted to no longer connect to my brain, because I blinked and my hand was in Seth’s hair, almost stroking like I was petting a cat, and Seth was humming his appreciation, like a purring cat.

_What the hell is going on here? And why am I okay with this? I don’t touch my friends like this. Ever. Not even Roman, and he’s like a brother to me._

But I didn’t let go, and I didn’t stop, and I didn’t move.

I just let it be.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seth frowned and waved some kind of brush I couldn’t name at me. “I like to look nice,” he simply said. 
> 
> “I think you look nice without it.” Fuck.
> 
> He froze for a second, but he regained his composure quickly. “Well, thank you, but I’m gonna wear it anyway. Personal preference rules.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "everything you write is a masterpiece" *proceeds to make makeup application erotic*  
> Not too erotic yet though, that's for later in the story...  
> Enjoy :)

The day of our first show on tour was, coincidentally, three months to the day that Seth and I first met.

And by that day, we were inseparable. I received plenty of weird looks from Sami and Roman when I spent a lot of time around Seth, when we’d stand maybe a little too close to each other, when somehow, our things started becoming shared, and half of his makeup had ended up in my suitcase, when I had no idea how it’d ended up there.

Sami had pulled me aside the morning we’d arrived in St. Louis for the first show, after we’d arrived and I woke up on a bench seat curled up against Seth, my face in his neck and his arm around me, and I had no recollection of even falling asleep.

(I found out later that one of them had taken pictures, because when those pictures leaked… oh man, did they cause a shitstorm. You’d think people wouldn’t care so much about two guys sleeping together. _Literally_ sleeping, not fucking. But they did.)

We were outside the venue that morning; coincidentally, right out in front, but since it was 11 AM and we weren’t _that_ popular yet, no one was lined up, and no one passing by recognized us, so we were able to stand outside and talk. Sami was smoking a cigarette, and god, I wanted one, could’ve used one because suddenly my nerves were frayed as fuck, but I forced myself not to bum one off him, because I knew how bad they were for your voice, and I’d quit about a year ago, but the craving had never really gone away.

“So,” Sami said, after a deep inhale of smoke, holding the cigarette loosely between his fingertips, “you and Seth.”

“What about it?”

Sami squinted at me, and I shifted, feeling vaguely uncomfortable under his gaze. As he took another drag, the wind picked up and blew the smoke in my face, and I twitched a little, the urge to pick up my former habit trying to push its way to the forefront of my mind. I tried to push it back, but it was a difficult battle.

“Aren’t you straight?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, too quickly. “That has nothing to do with it. We’re just friends. You know that.”

“Sure aren’t acting like just friends,” Sami said, chuckling. “I mean, _I_ may be gay, and I don’t know about Seth… but you ‘n him are being a lot closer than we are. You were practically sleepin’ on top of him this morning.”

“I don’t even remember falling asleep, okay? _You’re_ one to talk; you know better than all of us about the shit that can happen when you’re asleep.”

Sami frowned at me and tapped an ash my way, but the breeze let him down so the ash missed its target entirely, dying out on the ground.

“Cool it, okay? Don’t need to get so defensive on me. We’re best friends, man. I was just curious. You’re doin’ it with Seth, cool; you’re not, cool. I just think Seth looks pretty interested… and I think you do, too. And I know you. I just wanted to tell you that, y’know, I support you, whatever you’re doing, whoever you are.”

He took another drag from his cigarette and shook his head, looking down at the worn sidewalk beneath our feet. “God, I hate this sappy shit. I hate _you,_ Ambrose.”

That was the Sami I knew, and the slightly-sick feeling I’d had dissipated enough for me to feel better. “I hate you too, Callihan.”

He took another drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray by the door, then mock-punched me in the ribs. My manager would come outside ten minutes later, wondering where the hell we’d gone off to, and he’d find us play-tussling, like little kids on the playground. But it felt so good to have things be this easy with Sami again.

It felt good for everything to be back to normal.

* * *

“What are you doing?”

“Getting ready.”

“Seth, it’s just soundcheck. There won’t be anyone in the audience. You don’t need to put that on.”

Seth frowned and waved some kind of brush I couldn’t name at me. “I like to look nice,” he simply said.  

“I think you look nice without it.” _Fuck._

He froze for a second, but he regained his composure quickly. “Well, thank you, but I’m gonna wear it anyway. Personal preference rules.”

I watched as he started applying something to his eyelashes with something that looked like I would never trust it within half a foot of my eye, but he seemed experienced, not even flinching despite the fact that it looked like he was putting whatever it was _in_ his eye.

I swallowed hard when he picked up what looked like a tube of lipstick and placed it against his lips, pursing them to apply it, and my throat felt dry.

“Can you… uh…”

“Can I what, Dean?” Seth asked patiently, setting down the tube of lipstick and watching me through the mirror.

“Put some on me, too?” _What the fuck, self,_ I asked myself. _What the fuck are you doing?_

But I didn’t take it back.

Seth brightened. “Of course,” he said. “What do you want?”

I decided to leave it up to him. “Whatever you think would look good on me,” I said. “As much as you want.”

“Okay,” Seth said quietly, studying me and nodding.

It felt strangely intimate when he went to work, his hands all over my face, tipping my head or sweeping something over my cheekbones, and once he rested his fingertip on my bottom lip and I could almost taste his skin.

A tiny part of me wanted to.

And when he was done, and he showed me his work in the mirror, I hardly recognized myself, but together, we looked pretty fucking amazing.

“Thanks,” I said, voice hoarse.

He leaned over me in the chair, smiled at me in the mirror. “Anytime,” he responded, and I felt his fingers in my hair.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seth smiled, but it was a wry smile that looked wrong on his face. “You wanna know what my problem is, huh? You really wanna know what my problem is?”
> 
> “Yeah, I do,” I said, stepping forward until our chests were nearly touching and all I could see was the dark intensity of his eyes boring into mine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irrelevant fun fact: Today I decided to poke around all my fic archives and I discovered that all the porn-without-plot fics I have ever posted anywhere have garnered a collective 88 thousand views and I don't know whether to be happy or concerned that people are excessively getting off to them.  
> Oh well. Such is life.  
> I found an hour-long compilation of videos of the sort-of-but-not-quite couple who inspired Seth and Dean in this fic making out so I decided to write some more of this because I just want Seth and Dean to make out already dammit.  
> Enjoy :)

I took off some of the makeup before the show, after Roman had gawked at me and Sami had smiled at me like we shared some secret the rest of the world would never know.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like the makeup; Seth had done a damn good job. It was just that I didn’t appreciate being stared at like I was some sort of freak.

Maybe makeup wasn’t supposed to be my thing. Maybe it was just supposed to be Seth’s, and I was trying to fit somewhere I didn’t belong.

And I’d have to accept that.

And when we were waiting in the wings before the show was to start, trying to will away the last pre-show nerves, I saw Seth staring at me, and I watched as something unfamiliar settled across his face, something that curved the corners of his lips down in a frown, something that made his eyes divert from my face when I tried to meet them.

It was disappointment.

And fuck, I hated the taste.

* * *

Our first show was fucking amazing. Yeah, there might not have been more than two hundred people in the audience, but with the way they ate everything up, it might as well have been twenty thousand. And backstage, after the show, we were all fucking drunk off leftover adrenaline, and Seth pulled me into his side and I stayed like I belonged there.

That is, until the edge wore off and I realized Seth was clutching at me almost possessively, and Dean Ambrose belonged to no one. I pulled away, and that pity-inducing frown from before the show reappeared.

“God, what’s your problem?” I asked him before it occurred to me that my choice of words was fucking horrible. But of course, I was apparently born without a filter between my mouth and brain.

“Nothing,” Seth said, but there was a hard edge in his voice, and I didn’t like it one bit. But instead of just letting the problem die out by itself, I had to challenge it.

“That’s bullshit. Ever since we were backstage before the show you’ve been lookin’ at me like I did something wrong and I know I didn’t do a fucking thing wrong. You’ve obviously got a problem with me, so why don’t you spit it out so we can talk about it instead of, I don’t know, trying to deal with it through not talking?” I didn’t realize I’d raised my voice until it was too late.

Seth smiled, but it was a wry smile that looked wrong on his face. “You wanna know what my problem is, huh? You really wanna know what my problem is?”

“Yeah, I do,” I said, stepping forward until our chests were nearly touching and all I could see was the dark intensity of his eyes boring into mine.

“My problem is you,” he said, before turning his back to me and walking away, leaving me confused and dumbfounded.

And all I thought was _how dare you._

* * *

For a good two weeks after that, the closeness we’d built up over the past few months vanished entirely. Seth tried his hardest to stay away from me, and when we were forced to be in the same small space (also known as the tour van), you could feel the physical tension between us, thick with anger and things that needed to be said but that neither of us were willing to say.

We managed to get along during soundcheck and during shows, but just barely. It was good that the small fanbase we had didn’t seem very observant, because my manager never said shit about how distant we’d become, so apparently no one had been posting about it all over social media (but if they were, I wouldn’t have known, ‘cause I didn’t like that shit anyway, and still don’t).

But of course, Sami noticed. Sami was always too damn observant.

I nearly choked on the gulp of water I’d just taken from my water bottle when Sami ambled up to me during a break inbetween songs during soundcheck and asked, “So, what’s up with you and Seth?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said once I’d recovered, despite knowing that my acting skills were fucking nonexistent.

“You’re not feelin’ him up anymore and he’s not feelin’ you up anymore. What’s going on?”

“I hate you,” I muttered.

“I heard that.”

“You were supposed to,” I said dryly. “Anyway, we had a pointless argument and now he’s trying to pretend like I don’t exist.”

“’S okay, Deano, it’s not the end of the world. Married couples fight all the time,” he said, elbowing me in the ribs pointedly.

“I _really_ hate you,” I emphasized. “To the point that I’m going to hide your favorite pair of drumsticks before the show tonight and you’ll be shit outta luck tryin’ to find them.”

His eyes widened to near-comical proportions. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” I said solemnly.

“If I see your fuckin’ ass anywhere near them tonight I’m gonna beat your ass,” he threatened.

“I’d like to see you try, Callihan,” I challenged him, a smile breaking out onto my face.

“Oh, fuck you, Ambrose,” he said, but he was smiling too.

I was so preoccupied with Sami that I never even saw Seth in the corner, guitar on his lap, watching us with a storm brewing in his eyes and his knuckles white around the neck of his guitar.

I couldn’t have known what was to come.


End file.
